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The darkness.
It is night
and I wade, again,
through a cloud of tears.
Like a fog bank they come
on their little cat feet,
like a gentle rain
drums and rattles,
rattles and drums
on the blanket of fallen leaves
I haven't got around to bagging.
Now a pouring rain
waters
the roof and garden.
Before my sore and weary eyes
the page
reaching out of my book
goes slowly blank
and the backs of my hands
taste of salt.
I ask myself again,
as I have asked countless times,
"Why do I miss her so,
always, it seems,
though I hardly knew her, really,
but we clicked,
as they say.
And now a lumpy tiger cat sleeps,
wrapped abound my reading lamp
and every sound echoes
off the paneled walls.
Desperate, now,
for any break in the bleakness
I call her name:
"Elizabeth!"
But she's gone now,
gone forever,
leaving behind
a closetful of clothes
and a ghost
that pads unseen
across the floors late at night
where through the lowering clouds,
tears fall
like gentle rain.
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